


twenty seconds to midnight

by Astrals (Evoxine)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Ice Hockey, And there's soft sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, THEY SAVED EACH OTHER, alternate universe - figure skating, oh my god they were roommates, wholesome shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22145314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evoxine/pseuds/Astrals
Summary: Shiro decides that the best way to leave the past behind him is to move on.Quite literally.He packs up and escapes to a new city, a new school, and hopefully a new start.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 221
Collections: Sheith Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY (belated) HOLIDAYS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> Art by the wonderful [@Lido_shka](https://twitter.com/Lido_shka) on Twitter :) Thank you for being such an awersome Big Bang partner <3
> 
> Also, please heed the tags!

“Hello?”

It’s close to midnight when Shiro opens the door to his new dorm room and peeks inside. Half-expecting his roommate to be there, he’s surprised to see that not only is the place empty, it’s also oddly neat. _Too_ neat for a university dorm, in fact, almost as if no one has stepped foot into this room in months. If it weren’t for the textbooks piled up on one desk and an open closet door revealing clothes inside, Shiro would’ve guessed that he lucked out and nabbed an empty room all to himself. 

Shrugging, he hefts his bags inside and gets to unpacking the necessary stuff – his training gear, pyjamas, and toiletries. He tucks the rest of his bags under his bed to deal with tomorrow and makes a beeline for the tiny bathroom a few feet away, doing his best to speed through his night routine. It’s late and he has practice first thing in the morning, and he really wants to show the team that his scholarship is more than deserved. 

He goes to bed with his hair still damp, and by the time the door opens and his roommate enters, Shiro is already sound asleep.

  
The whistle blows and a dozen pairs of hockey skates skid to a stop. Helmets come off and mouth guards are spat out, the team huddled close enough for their padded shoulders to bump. 

“Things are looking good, and with a bit of additional practice I think we can get Shirogane up to speed with how the team works both on and off the ice. Holt, whenever you’re able to book the rink, I want you to arrange extra practices with him. It’s your team – evaluate his abilities and see how he’ll fit into our plays.” 

Matthew Holt nods, giving Shiro a friendly grin. “Will do, Coach.”

They’re dismissed after a few more minutes of housekeeping information and Shiro receives enough claps to his shoulders to last him a week. It’s heartening to know that the team is made up of friendly members, but it doesn’t help alleviate the nerves that Shiro knows will hit as soon as his first match is around the corner. 

He’s just about the step off the ice when he takes a look around the empty rink. 

“Can we not continue to use the rink now? I have time to spare if you do.”

Matt shakes his head, sweat-damp strands of hair plastered to his neck and forehead. “I do, but It’s been booked. Kogane uses the rink every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday right after us. He’s never missed a day for the past two years.”

Just one person booking the entire rink? A tiny spark of curiosity blooms, but Shiro’s promptly distracted when one of the other players – Kinkade, if his memory serves his well – turns around and calls out an invite for some coffee. Shiro accepts and Matt gives him a thumbs-up, and they head into the locker rooms for a quick shower. 

Just as the doors swing shut, Shiro thinks he hears the sounds of skates on ice. 

  
Thankfully, he seems to earn approval from the rest of the hockey team. Shiro knows from experience that it’s always jarring to have a new addition in a sports team, especially one that comes in after things have more or less settled down. Due to some internal issues, his transfer had been delayed for a few weeks. Along with a couple of games, he’d missed tryouts, something he’d wanted to attend despite his scholarship securing him a position on the team. 

Everything is new, from the dynamics to the environment, as well as the interactions between each member. Shiro has always been confident in his abilities to adapt, relying on both his innate talent at getting others to like him and the smile he’s perfected from staring in the mirror. 

It works, and he becomes fast friends with Matt. When they’re not on the ice or in class – it turns out that they share a couple of electives –, Matt brings Shiro around campus. He points out good study spots, informs Shiro on what cafés and cafeteria booths are worth the inflated price, and warns him never to sit under the spruce tree behind the science building. 

“It houses a large family of pigeons that _really_ like to shit on students. I’ve gotten hit twice, and let me tell you, going to class with bird poop in your hair is not a good experience.”

Despite the cliché of it all, he has lunch with the team almost every day. Back when he was captain of his own team, Shiro made it a point to have everyone meet up at least once a week. After all, when you get along outside of the sport, chances are you’ll work better together on the ice. 

It would be a blatant lie to say that he wasn’t nervous about starting over in another city. But things seem to be going well, and Shiro lets himself cling on to that ray of optimism. 

There’s just one little thing that baffles him. 

Shiro doesn’t quite know how this is possible, but he’s gone a whole two weeks without bumping into his roommate. Sure, his schedule is packed and he’s rarely back in his room unless it’s time to sleep, but even so, he doesn’t catch a single glimpse of the person supposedly sharing the space with him. Hell, he had even tried to wait up one night just so he could meet him, but exhaustion took over and he gave up just before the clock struck one. 

All Shiro knows about him is his first name and his last initial: Keith K., and that’s only because he couldn’t resist peeking at one of the notebooks he’d spotted lying around. 

In fact, if his tutorial didn’t get cancelled and he didn’t choose to head back for a quick – and much needed – catnap before practice, Shiro probably would not have met him for another few days. Shiro’s in the middle of fiddling with the blinds when the lock clicks and the door creaks open. 

Caught off guard, neither one says a word for at least ten seconds, both scrambling for some sort of purchase in this cloud of awkwardness. In that time, it dawns on Shiro that he’s in a pair of boxers with cartoon clouds printed all over it.

“Hi,” Shiro says eventually, giving the blinds one last half-hearted yank. Well, nothing much he can do about the boxers now. “I’m Takashi Shirogane, but you can call me Shiro. I’m your new roommate.”

When he steps forward, hand outstretched, his roommate shifts. A ray of sunlight spills across his face and Shiro is momentarily stunned by the unique shade of violet his irises take on in the light. The colour contrasts wonderfully with the slight bronze of his skin, further highlighted by several locks of raven hair that have fallen out of his messy top bun. 

“Hey. I’m Keith Kogane. Nice to finally meet you.” 

Something about that name is familiar, but Shiro’s too tired to give it much thought. They shake hands, Keith’s smaller one practically engulfed by Shiro’s. His grip is strong, however, despite the delicateness of slim fingers. 

“Seems like our schedules are polar opposites.” 

Shiro’s comment brings a small smile to Keith’s lips. “Yeah, I was beginning to think you were a ghost that somehow owns corporeal stuff.” Keith gestures to Shiro’s side of the room. “And makes the bed every morning.”

At that, Shiro lets out a laugh. “It’s not a lie when people say that boarding school takes its toll on you,” he quips, moving to the bed in question and peeling back the covers. 

The door shuts behind Keith as he heads over to his desk. Swaddled with the covers and head comfortably pillowed, Shiro watches as his roommate – Keith! – pulls books out of his backpack only to replace them with others. 

“I would love to stay and chat,” Keith says, thumbing through his many notebooks and glancing over at Shiro. “But I have a class in ten. And it looks like you’re ready for a nap.”

Shiro hums sleepily, already feeling the heaviness tugging on his eyelids. “We should have a roommate date. If we’re going to be living together for a year, it’s probably smart to get to know each other a little better.”

He manages to stay awake just long enough to obtain verbal agreement from Keith. 

  
With an hour and a half to spare before he’s due to meet Matt at the rink, Shiro grabs his laptop and heads down to the nearest café. He has a fifteen-page history essay due at the end of the month and he should really get started on it now if he doesn’t want to pull all-nighters.

He finds an empty table near the back of the establishment, and after asking a nearby couple to keep watch over his belongings, he heads over to the counter for some coffee. The line is long, as it always is in any university, so Shiro spends the time scrolling through his phone and catching up on news. 

The baristas are efficient, churning out drink after drink and managing to keep the line moving at a steady pace. Before long, Shiro’s placed his order – a large Americano – and is back in his seat to wait. He gets his computer up and running, pulling up his notes and several research papers to read through. 

Shiro dives headfirst into work, eyes flitting across the screen as he types. He’s so engrossed in his work that it takes his brain several additional seconds to register the barista calling out his name. When it finally clicks, he springs up and weaves through the crowd, apologising as he goes. 

“Shiro?”

There, standing next to him, is Keith.

“Keith! What are you doing here?”

Shiro’s fingers close around a large cup and he takes it, assuming it’s his simply because it seems to be the only hot drink up on the counter. 

“Getting some coffee,” Keith says, the corner of his mouth quirking. He has his own drink in hand, a couple of napkins wrapped around it. “Like most people here, I would presume.”

Shiro laughs. “Well, you presume incorrectly. I’m here to get some work done; coffee is just a perk.” He tilts his head towards his little table. “Care to join? If you’re not busy, of course.”

To his surprise, Keith accepts the offer. “Sure. I’ll let you have some of my precious time. After all, you are my roommate.”

Back at Shiro’s table, they toast each other with their coffees and take careful sips. Only for Shiro to choke on his drink while Keith gags. 

“This is –”

“– absolutely _disgusting_.”

Shiro scrambles for the bottle of water he always carries with him, chasing the taste of pure sugar away with a few gulps of water. He has barely swallowed his last mouthful when the bottle is snatched out of his hands, Keith draining a third of it in one go. 

“How do you drink this,” Keith demands, turning the cup until he catches sight of Shiro’s name scribbled across it. “It’s so gross.”

“I could say the same for you! How are you not diabetic? You have ten cups of sugar in this thing!”

Keith sniffs, affronted. “Excuse me, it’s _not_ ten cups of sugar. It’s just a caramel macchiato with an extra shot of caramel. _Yours_ , on the other hand, is so bitter that I can feel my taste buds shrivel right up.” He’s clearly willing to defend his choice of ‘coffee’ until he dies, if the look he levels on Shiro is any indication.

“Alright, let’s just both agree that each other’s choice in coffee is an abomination and move on,” Shiro suggests, pushing Keith’s cup forward in truce. 

A pleased sigh leaves Keith’s lips when he finally gets a taste of his drink. Shiro wonders why heat suddenly shoots up to the tips of his ears. 

“Why did you choose this café to study in, anyway? It’s always stupidly noisy in here.”

Shiro scratches at his chin. “Is it weird if I tell you that I work better with ambient noise?”

When Keith leans forward into the light, Shiro catches a glimpse of violet again, along with a faint scar running down Keith’s right cheek. He wonders how that scar came to be, mind starting to delve into various scenarios when Keith snorts in amusement and Shiro snaps back to attention. 

“You drink black coffee. This isn’t anywhere close to being as weird as liking black coffee.” 

“Hey, black coffee and Americanos do not taste the same,” Shiro says, wagging a finger. Keith simply raises an eyebrow and hides his smile behind his cup. 

Somehow, they get onto the topic of Shiro’s essay. Keith seems to be interested – far more interested than Shiro would have expected, actually – in what Shiro has to say, humming at the right times to prompt him for more information and even asking a couple of questions that gets Shiro thinking. 

While he doesn’t get as much done as he would’ve, Shiro does walk away from the conversation with additional points that might end up making his essay much better. 

“I don’t suppose you’re a history major,” Shiro half-jokes. “I chose it as my elective out of interest and I’ve come to regret it; I’m not particularly skilled at essays.”

“I’m actually majoring in aerospace engineering,” Keith says, licking at the whipped cream lining his upper lip. Shiro reminds himself that it’s rude to stare. “A lot of lab work, but no essays whatsoever. But my friend Pidge tells me I have an innate talent for writing, so I suppose if you’re nice to me, I can help you with some editing.”

Shiro ends up putting his laptop away, choosing to focus on his conversation with Keith instead. He’s easy to talk to, a little sarcastic at times and very witty in general, and Shiro finds himself really enjoying Keith’s presence. 

They talk until their cups are empty. Shiro learns that Keith’s dream of going into space has been with him since he was a little boy and that he used to volunteer at an animal shelter for years until his workload grew to be too heavy. He wants a dog, one big enough for him to sleep on. Shiro thinks that's adorable. 

Everything flows so easily that when The Question hits, Shiro quite literally stutters to a stop. 

“So why did you transfer here?”

Panic, familiar and unfamiliar all at once, surges up inside him and he struggles to keep his breathing even. He hates this question, because how do you tell someone you’ve just met that you’ve been fending for yourself since you were twelve and the one thing you can’t handle is an abusive ex? That said ex-boyfriend is the sole reason you left a place you once called home because he ruined everything?

Should he lie? Come up with a –

“Hey,” Keith says, sharp voice cutting into the mess currently swirling around in his mind. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Shiro stares down at Keith’s hand pressed flat on the table, fingers splayed apart and the tips of his fingers centimetres away from Shiro’s balled-up fists. 

“Shiro?”

His breath catches when Keith’s fingertips graze across his forearm. Warm, solid, grounding. Shiro fights past the tightness in his chest and breathes. 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He wants to twist his arm around and hold onto Keith’s hand, but the little voice of reason in his head stops him from doing so. “I’m okay. Thanks. Maybe we can talk about this in the future instead?”

“Of course,” Keith says, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

It’s not very subtle when Keith nudges Shiro’s water bottle closer to him, but Shiro appreciates the sentiment. He takes a few sips under Keith’s watchful eye, only lowering the bottle when he sees Keith nod in approval. 

“So, I saw that hockey stick of yours in our room. You on the team?”

If the thought of a relationship didn’t send shivers running down his spine, Shiro would definitely consider falling in love with this man. 

“I am, actually. I got in on a hockey scholarship, so I kinda have to be.”

That seems to pique Keith’s interest. “Yeah? You must be very good then; I don’t think the school gives out hockey scholarships often. I bet Matt’s happy. They’ve been needing some new talent out there; the past couple of years haven’t been good to the hockey team.”

“You know Matt?”

Keith nods, looking away for a brief moment to wave to someone he knows. “Sorry, classmate of mine. But yeah, I know him. His sister, Pidge – I think I’ve mentioned her? – is a good friend. She’s really close with Matt, so because of her, I’ve been to my fair share of games. Not much recently though, since they haven’t been doing well and I hate seeing Pidge sad. But maybe I’ll go see your first game.”

The thought that Keith might be there in the stands and watching him play gets Shiro’s blood racing. He hopes his ears aren’t red again. “Wow, way to make someone nervous.” 

Keith grins, something mischievous lighting up in his eyes. “I’m just one person. Even if I wasn’t there, wouldn’t hundreds of other spectators make you nervous as well?”

“None of them are my roommate,” Shiro points out. “The roommate relationship is a very important one, you know.”

That pulls a laugh out of Keith and Shiro can’t help but smile. 

  
Time flies by, and before he knows it, Shiro’s faced with his first two home games looming over the horizon. He’s been practicing almost every day, running through drills and plays with Matt – doing well out on the ice is never a doubt, but Shiro wants to do his best. 

He gets his team jerseys a few days before his first game, brand new and ready to be broken in, hopefully with a victory. That night, perched on the foot of his bed with one of the jerseys in his hand, he wonders what it would feel like to be able to send a picture of it to his mom. Would she be proud? Worried about potential injuries? Would she go to his games and cheer for him?

Twenty-four hours before the game, Shiro heads out to the rink and pulls on his skates. Apart from a few students using the bleachers as a hang-out spot, he’s the only one there. Dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt, he glides around in aimless circles, trying to picture what a full-blown hockey game in this arena would look like. It’s so much bigger than any of the previous arenas he’s played in – it feels surreal. 

As his mind runs, he ends up going faster and faster until the wind is whipping through his hair and his skates are kicking up ice whenever he turns. 

“Hey,” he hears through the scrape of blades against ice. When he skids to a stop and looks up, he sees Matt and a small version of him standing by the barrier. They have the same hair and the same features – the only thing that’s different is their height and glasses. “What are you doing here? You should be resting.”

“You’re Shiro,” Matt’s mini-me says, all matter-of-factly. “I’m Pidge. I’ve heard a lot about you. Matt has a lot of faith in you, you know.”

Ah, so she’s the sister. Matt pinches her ear and ignores her resulting yelp. 

“Please ignore her. Get some rest, yeah? I don’t want you straining a muscle or something right before the game.”

“I will, I promise. Just gonna spend a bit more time here then I’ll head back.”

The Holt siblings bid him goodbye and Shiro watches them go, heart warm at the way Matt has his hand resting on Pidge’s head the entire way out. 

He’s just about to push off the ice again when he spots a familiar figure. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Keith says, clearing the last step and ambling up to him. “Don’t you spend enough time in the rink already?”

He’s got his backpack hanging off one shoulder and what looks like a gym bag in his hand. 

“Just getting all the extra energy out of me.” Shiro skates backwards a few feet before gliding back towards Keith. “Were you studying here?”

“Yes, because unlike you, I like having space and silence when I study. Library study rooms are too tiny, cafés are too loud, and studying in our room just makes me want to crawl into bed and sleep.”

Shiro blinks. “I…see. I guess it makes sense then, you choosing to study here.”

Keith shrugs and rests his elbows on the ledge. “It makes perfect sense, but I don’t expect someone who studies in a café to understand. So, Mr. Hockey Scholarship, can you do any tricks?”

Rather than telling him, Shiro chooses to show him. He sets off spinning, then when the dizziness starts to hit, he lifts one foot off the ice and skates over to where Keith is standing. 

“You know,” Keith begins, “your turns are actually pretty decent for a hockey player. Nice balance, too – you didn’t really wobble when you were on one foot.”

Pride washes over Shiro like he’d stepped under a waterfall of it. It’s mildly embarrassing, but at least he’s the only one who knows. 

“Well, with my turns and my exceptional balance, there’s no way I’d lose tomorrow, right?”

Keith nods sagely. “I think you’ll be the saving grace of the hockey team, Takashi.”

Hearing Keith call him by that name, the name only one other person used to call him, blindsides him. It has only been a couple of months since he’d last heard it, and the fear he’d used to feel associated with that name is still there, pressing down on his chest.

“Sorry,” Keith says before Shiro can think of a polite way to break the news to him. “You prefer Shiro?” When Shiro nods, Keith reaches over to squeeze his hand. “Okay. I know you told me to call you Shiro, but I thought it was what people tend to call you and not what you prefer. I'll remember that. Anyway, I’d love to stay and watch you spin around, but I’m afraid I have a study group to get to. See you later?”

Keith leaves with a wave and Shiro watches him leave, eyes fixed on the modelesque curve of his neck. _Stop_ , he tells himself, _don’t dig your own grave_. No one, not even someone like Keith, would want to be with a man as broken as he is. 

  
The locker room is buzzing, filled with so much testosterone and adrenaline that Shiro’s pulse has been elevated since the moment he stepped inside. He has missed the excitement of competition, but it’s been long enough since his last match that the anticipation is drowned out by nerves. 

While his teammates laugh and joke and rev each other up, Shiro sits with his back against the lockers, helmet in hand as he tries to clear his mind. 

“Nervous?”

Shiro shifts to make room for Matt, their padded shoulders bumping when the captain settles down.

“Yeah, a little. It’s been a while since I’ve actually competed in a league and all.”

“If it helps, our hockey team doesn’t exactly have great expectations that people expect us to live up to.”

Shiro laughs. “That’s comforting. So if I fumble a few passes I won’t get booed?”

“Definitely not. Once, someone insulted our goalie and Katie sent Hunk – who’s on the wrestling team, by the way – after the guy. Ever since that day, I’ve never heard anyone say anything negative about our games. I’m sure people still think it, but with Katie on our side, no one utters a word. She’s small, but she can be terrifying. All bark _and_ all bite.”

“Katie?”

“Pidge. Her birth name is Katie and I’m the only person allowed to call her that. Even our parents call her Pidge.”

Just thinking of Pidge as the team’s tiny guardian angel is such an oddly comforting image that Shiro finds himself relaxing a little. Matt continues chatting away, telling him about a friend of his that’s been mooning over the new head cheerleader with silver hair. As he talks, he spins his helmet round and round – the shiny surface catches the light and it reminds him of purple eyes in the sun.

The minutes tick by and before he knows it, they’re due out on the ice. Matt passes Shiro his hockey stick and rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“Just play, yeah? Don’t think about the score, don’t think about the people watching. It’s just you, the puck, and us. Apart from that, whatever happens, happens.”

He nods, tightens his grip around his hockey stick, and follows Matt out. 

The arena isn’t filled by any means, but enough of the seats are filled that Shiro can feel eyes following his every move. With his bulk, he’d expected to be put on defence, but Matt had insisted he become a forward instead. So he finds himself following Matt and Griffin out into the middle of the rink, skates rasping across the ice. 

When Matt waves at someone in the stands, Shiro turns to look as well. He sees Pidge first – she’s not easy to miss, not when she’s at least a head shorter than everyone else around her and has bright ginger hair. There’s a large, hulking man to her right with the kindest face that Shiro assumes is Hunk, but it’s the person to Pidge’s left that catches Shiro’s attention. 

Keith is there, standing out from his surroundings just as much as Pidge does, thanks to his blood red biker jacket and hair spilling down around his shoulders. 

Shiro doesn’t wave, not too sure if they’re close enough to do so in front of so many people, but he thinks Keith sends an encouraging smile his way. 

_Balance and turns_ , he thinks, and looks across the rink to his closest opponent. _Whatever happens, happens._

  
In the end, Kinkade scores the winning goal, taking advantage of a short-handed team to shoot. It was a close game, and Shiro knows he’ll be heading home with his fair share of bruises, but the fact that they’re walking away with a victory is surreal. He did it. He pulled his weight, supported his teammates to the best of his ability, and even scored a goal of his own. 

“We’re going out to celebrate,” Matt informs him as they head back to the locker room, arm a solid weight across Shiro’s shoulders.. “A successful first game for the one and only Shirogane. You’re coming, of course.”

Shiro’s tired, in need of twelve hours of sleep and a deep tissue massage, but he can’t say no when the rest of the team is riding this high. He’s happy too, and he supposes he deserves this one celebration. 

“Sure,” he agrees, and a wave of cheers follows him inside. 

The water is scalding, sluicing down his body and washing away the soap and sweat. It eases some of the tension in his muscles and keeps the exhaustion at bay, something he’s extremely thankful for. A quick, hard scrub leaves his skin flushed and scalp tingling, and Shiro takes another few seconds to simply stand underneath the spray. 

He runs a hand down the side of his neck and over the curve of his shoulder. Perhaps it’s because he knows where it is by touch alone, but Shiro feels the edge of the scar brushing against his fingertip even before he touches it. Jagged, raised, and puckered, the scar runs from the middle of his bicep down past his elbow. 

It’s ugly and he knows it, always choosing to wear compression sleeves when he’s training or working out, and living in hoodies whenever the weather allows him to. Of course, it’s inevitable that some lay eyes on it, and Shiro’s explanation is always a _hockey accident_ , something easy to believe and play off as the truth. Oftentimes, Shiro will find himself wishing that a _hockey accident_ isn't a lie – after all, anything is better than the truth.

If it’s any consolation, he tells himself, at least the scar across his nose is actually from a hockey accident. 

He steps out of the shower and moves quickly, towelling off and stepping into his clothes before anyone can get a chance to catch a glimpse of his scar. There’s a reason why he tends to stay back after practice or go to the gym at an odd hour, and it’s not because he wants to squeeze in extra exercise. 

Griffin finds him just as he’s pulling the sleeves of his crew neck down. 

“We’re splitting up into several cars. You’ll go with Matt, yeah?”

“Sounds good.”

He gets a pat on the shoulder before Griffin leaves. Shiro packs up, leaving his hard equipment inside the locker and stuffing dirty clothes into his bag.

“Shiro? Ready to go?”

  
It isn’t until he’s buckled in that Shiro realises who the person sitting next to him is. 

“Hi,” Keith says. “You did real good out there. Saw that little spin you did at the end, too,”

Shiro grins, willingly taking Keith’s weight when the car turns and Keith goes with the momentum. The poor guy’s stuck in the middle, squished between Shiro and Hunk – it’s Matt’s car, so of course Pidge gets shotgun. 

“I’ll work on my spins,” Shiro says, painfully aware of how much it sounds like a promise. “Maybe next time I’ll do two in a row.”

“Yeah?” Another turn, and this time Keith rests a hand on Shiro’s knee to steady himself. Shiro ignores the way his heart leaps into his throat and doesn’t move an inch. “Well, I guess I’ll be going to more games, huh?”

Shiro’s reply is cut off when a large hand swings around in front of Keith and stops short of smacking Shiro in the nose. 

“Hi,” a deep, friendly voice says. “I’m Hunk. We haven’t had a chance to meet yet, and I kinda wanted to introduce myself before you two got so wrapped up in conversation that intruding at any point after that would be extra rude. I hope this isn’t considered rude either…”

The angle isn’t the best for a handshake, so Shiro offers Hunk a fistbump, one that is eagerly accepted. “No worries; great to meet you, man. Heard you’re a defender of the team’s image and all.”

Keith is slight enough that Shiro’s able to glimpse the casual lift of one of Hunk’s massive shoulders. “People shouldn’t be assholes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I don’t like assholes.”

For whatever reason, that statement has Keith leaning forward and poking Pidge in the shoulder. “Will Lance be there?”

“I think so.”

A groan, then Keith is slumping back into his seat. “Who invited him? He’s still upset that I got a better grade than him in our recent lab. It’s not my fault he writes shitty lab reports!”

While Keith and Pidge bicker over whoever this Lance person is, Shiro sits back and stares out the window at the city rushing by. Pedestrians, dogs on leashes, storefronts of all colours – everything is full of life and they are surrounded by it. Keith’s hand remains on his knee, warmth seeping through the material of Shiro’s jeans. 

  
Life becomes a whirlwind of practice, assignments, and time spent with friends. It’s rare to find Shiro with nothing to do, for he’s always rushing off to an appointment, be it a meeting with Matt and his coach to discuss new plays, a study session with a classmate, or one of his many Roommate Dates with Keith, occasionally joined by their other friends. 

Just like this, the days blend into weeks and the weeks turn into months, and winter is suddenly creeping up on the city. Shiro stirs awake up on a Thursday morning, swaddled in his sheets and breathing in the faint scent of the fabric softener he and Keith share. Sunlight streaks into the room, lighting up the space just enough for Shiro to see that Keith’s still sound asleep, a hand curled tightly around a corner of his pillow.

It’s a scary feeling, but Shiro thinks he could call this place home. 

Moving here was a gamble – uprooting his entire life and relocating across the country to a city where he knew no one was a frightening decision, but he simply had to leave all that mess behind. He thought of himself for the first time in a long time, and this is his reward. 

A glance at the clock tells him that he’s got forty minutes before the start of his next class. He rolls out of bed, careful not to wake Keith as he heads into the bathroom to wash up and change. 

When he’s done, he drops by a bagel store and picks something up for Keith and himself – over the months, Shiro has come to notice that Keith tends to forgo food in favour of doing something else, too unwilling to waste precious time on obtaining and consuming it. So whenever he’s able to, Shiro grabs him something to eat. 

He leaves it on Keith’s desk with a pink sticky note stuck to the wrapper. 

_Eat it warm :)_

The lecture hall is still empty when he arrives. Shiro settles into his favourite seat – far enough from the lecturer that he doesn’t feel scrutinized, but close enough to see everything without squinting. He’s in the middle of pressing random keys on his keyboard to wake his stupid laptop up when he hears a bright, “What’s up, man? You’re here early.”

“Hey, Ronnie. Yeah, there wasn’t a long line at the bagel shop today, so I got breakfast quicker than usual.” He moves his bag to the other side to let Veronica sit, offering her a sip of his iced coffee when she settles down. 

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver.” She sucks down a third of the cup in one go, but Shiro doesn’t mind. There’s a reason he buys a large, anyway. 

She sets up her own laptop before picking out three different coloured pens and a notebook that she won’t even end up using. Shiro’s used to her quirks by now – they share a major, and consequently many of the same courses. Paired up for a project at the start of the semester, they bonded over a shared love for cats and rock music, quickly becoming fast friends. Now, Shiro can’t imagine classes without her. 

“I have something to ask you.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“Are you down for a blind date?”

He chokes, nearly spraying coffee all over his friend. Veronica doesn’t even flinch. 

“A _what_?”

“Blind date,” she repeats. The doors open and a group of students come in, chattering loudly as they find their seats. “You know, where two people go on a date arranged by a mutual acquaintance. The mutual acquaintance is me, and you will be one of the two –”

“Okay, I get it. I know what a blind date is, Ronnie. But _why_ are you setting me up on a blind date?” 

She looks at him like he’s stupid, and for a moment, Shiro feels like he is.

“Because someone I know is interested in you, and because I’ve known you for four months and you’ve never even mentioned being interested in anyone. You gotta get out there, man.” She leans closer and whispers, “You gotta get _laid_.”

Shiro is certain his face is on fire. He pushes Veronica away with two fingers pressed against her forehead and says, “Can we not talk about this?”

She sighs, sounding incredibly put out. “Fine. For now. I will be asking you again, because I do not like disappointing my friend.”

“Who is this friend, anyway? How do they even know me?”

This time, Veronica looks at him like he’s _really_ stupid.

“You’re the saving grace of the hockey team. Everyone knows who you are.”

  
“Your sister wants to set me up on a blind date.”

Lance whips his head around, eyes comically wide. “Really? Did you ask her to?”

“Uh, no? Do I look like I want to go on a blind date?”

They’re in the campus pub, seated on worn couches as they watch Keith and Pidge play darts. Keith is scarily good at darts, poker face strong whenever he lets one fly and scores a bullseye. Pidge is… well, Shiro doesn’t really know how good Pidge is, because he’s not exactly watching her play. 

“I’ve been asking her to set me up with Allura for the longest time, and she always pretends she doesn’t hear me whenever I bring it up.” 

Shiro doesn’t have to look over to know that Lance is pouting. 

“Allura isn’t available,” Shiro says slowly. “You know that, right?”

Known as the Silver Couple, Allura and Lotor are undoubtedly the university’s It Couple, what with her being the head cheerleader and his high position on the student council. Matching hair, matching grace, matching allure – it’s unsurprising that they’ve ended up together. 

Lance lifts his chin. “A man can dream.”

The bell by the door lets out a cheery jingle as it opens and welcomes Matt into the establishment. 

“What’s with that look?” Matt points to Lance’s face. In response, Lance lets out a lengthy sigh. 

“Blind dates,” Shiro summarises. “Ronnie won’t set him up.”

“But she’ll set Shiro up,” Lance mutters, glaring daggers at where Veronica is standing with her own friends across the room. “Clearly family means nothing to her.”

Matt and Shiro trade amused looks, choosing to say nothing and let Lance stew. 

“But yeah, I heard she wanted to set you up with someone. Curtis, I think?” 

The name isn’t familiar whatsoever and Shiro frowns, confused. “Who?”

Matt shrugs, picking out the almonds from the bowl of nuts sitting on the table. “Beats me. I tried talking her out of it, actually. Told her that there’s only one person you’d want to go on a date with, once you get your head out of the box labelled Denial.”

“Denial? What? Who?” 

When Shiro doesn’t grace Lance’s question with an answer, Matt takes one look at him and snorts. He doesn’t say anything else, however, and Shiro is grateful. For months, he’s been hoping that whatever feelings he’d developed for his roommate would be fleeting – perhaps a crush buoyed by the fact that Keith is in constant proximity to him and happens to be gentle on the eyes. Yet, those feelings are anything but fleeting, because they’re still as strong as ever. 

It’s hard, because Shiro knows he’s still not ready for anything more, but he’s also not ready to try and get over Keith. The best he can do is downplay his own emotions, boxing them up in ‘a box labelled Denial.’

Right then, Keith cheers in victory and raises his fists into the air. He draws Shiro’s attention instantly.

“Aw, Katie! I was the one who taught you how to play darts. How can you lose to this rascal? Keith! I demand a rematch for the honour of my sister.”

Keith accepts with a grin, reaching for his drink while Matt plucks the darts out of the board. Their eyes meet over the rim of his glass and Shiro gives him a small smile. Keith doesn’t look away until Matt declares he’s ready. 

  
The wind is biting and Shiro has never been more thankful for the invention of turtlenecks. He sees fellow students bundled up in scarves and beanies, hands stuffed into coat pockets or wrapped around a steaming beverage that is sure to cool off within minutes. 

He should still be hunched over his laptop in the library, enjoying the warmth and muted hum of conversation, but he’d finished preparing for his presentation a little earlier than expected. With some time to waste, Shiro figures he’d head over to the rink and squeeze in some practice for the upcoming game against their biggest rivals.

Jogging against the wind, Shiro’s nose is numb by the time he bursts inside the arena, extremities tingling from the sudden change in temperature. At first glance, the arena is empty, several lights switched off and only the sound of the generators filling the large space. 

It’s only when Shiro is about to head into the locker rooms does he hear a familiar sound – skates on ice. 

Curious, Shiro backtracks and walks up to the rink. 

What he sees out there takes his breath away. 

Keith, dressed in tights and a fitted tee, is skating up a storm. Mouth agape, Shiro watches as Keith executes a triple jump, the way he leads into the jump and moves out of it so incredibly effortless that for a second, Shiro is convinced Keith isn’t human. 

He truly is the personification of art, lithe frame moving to music that only he can hear, wisps of hair falling out of its updo and whipping about his face. 

Shiro doesn’t know how long he stands there for, eyes following Keith’s every move. He doesn’t know much about figure skating, but from what he has seen on the Olympics, Shiro wholeheartedly believes his roommate could one day become worthy of the big leagues. 

When Keith stops abruptly at the other end of the rink, something jumps in the pit of Shiro’s stomach. From this distance, he can see the frustration on Keith’s flushed face, highlighted when he pinches the bridge of his nose and slumps onto the barrier. 

Chewing on his bottom lip, Shiro walks around to where Keith is, calling out his name once he’s within earshot. 

Keith’s head shoots up, startled. For some reason, he looks embarrassed, and Shiro can’t figure out why.

“Shiro. Ah – um, what are you doing here?”

“Finished up my presentation. Thought I’d come to practice a little before the day is over.” He pauses, aware of how Keith isn’t meeting his gaze. “I didn’t know you could skate like that.”

A half-hearted shrug, then Keith is saying, “Yeah, I know it isn’t something that you typically see men do, but –”

“Most men simply can’t be as graceful as you,” Shiro interjects. “You’re phenomenal. I’ve never seen anything like it, really. How do you move with so much power and grace at the same time?”

Shiro wonders if the red dusted across Keith’s cheekbones are from physical exertion or his words. 

“Figure skating has been my dream ever since I could remember,” Keith says, fiddling with an earbud. “But for so long, it’s been just that. A dream.”

“Why?”

A beat, where Keith looks at him like he’s weighing the pros and cons of answering Shiro’s question. 

“No one supported me. I was separated from my parents at a very young age, and growing up as a foster kid meant that you had to be content with what you got. If you had the necessities, you were lucky. My foster parents weren’t bad people by any means, but they never had the time nor money to support such far-fetched aspirations. Their kids would always come first, and I understood that. Everything you just saw was self-taught. I’d watch videos online and sneak into skating rinks hours after they’ve closed. The first thing I ever bought with my own money was a pair of skates. I recently reconnected with my birth mother, but I don’t quite know how to tell her about this, yet.” 

A lock of hair falls into Keith’s face and Shiro instinctively reaches over to tuck it back behind his ear. Keith smiles at him, something tender yet unreadable in his eyes, and a little voice in his head tells Shiro not pull his hand away. So he doesn’t, instead pushing his fingertips into Keith’s hair and pressing his palm against the slope of Keith’s neck. 

Keith closes his eyes and Shiro counts five beats of his pounding heart. 

“How come you never mentioned this to me?”

“A lot of people find it weird,” Keith mutters. “Only a few people know.”

Something clicks in Shiro’s brain. “Wait, oh my god. You’re that Kogane.”

Keith blinks. “What?”

“Months ago, Matt mentioned that someone by that name uses the rink every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after our practice. I never –”

Keith bursts out laughing, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. “Well, at least now I know that even someone as perfect as you has flaws.”

Not quite knowing how to respond to that – to being called perfect by Keith –, Shiro simply goes back to playing with the baby hairs on Keith’s nape. Keith lets him, staying still even when Shiro reaches up to pull the elastic out of his hair. But when he thumbs absently at the scar running down Keith’s cheek, Keith stiffens instantly.

“Hey, it’s okay. Skating accident?”

Keith nods slowly. Shiro grins and points to the scar across his nose. “Hockey accident.”

A violet gaze flits to the bridge of Shiro’s nose, then down to his lips, before rising back up to his eyes. 

Shiro sweeps his thumb across the scar again. “Can I watch you skate?”

“Right now?”

“No, not right now. But maybe from now on?”

With their gazes locked, Keith turns his head just enough to brush his lips over the edge of Shiro’s hand. “Yeah. Yeah, you can watch me skate.”

  
Being a millennial, Shiro has been in his fair share of exams. Like his fellow students, cramming the night before a final has become a skillset, one honed to perfection over the years. And so, it doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone when two nights before a final worth 40% of his final grade, Shiro finds himself in the library. He’d managed to snag a spot in a corner of the 9th floor – the relative peace and quiet (university libraries are noisier than one would believe) far outweigh the wobbly table, and Shiro hunkers down for a long night of studying. 

After midnight, the library starts to empty out. Shiro dutifully stays in his seat, fingers aching from the sheer amount of notes he has taken and eyes as dry as the desert. He’s on his third cup of coffee, the beverage both keeping him awake and being the only reason his back and legs aren’t stiff. Constantly running to the bathroom one floor down helps blood flow, after all. 

It’s almost two in the morning when his phone buzzes with a Snapchat from Keith: a shot of their dorm and the caption _where’d u go?_ across the middle of the picture.

 _library_ , Shiro replies. _busy cramming for my final :( why are u awake?_

He manages to read another two sentences before Keith’s reply comes. _was at the rink, then lost track of time. where in the library are you?_

Shiro tells Keith exactly where he is and it’s barely ten minutes later when he hears soft footsteps coming up the flight of stairs closest to him. 

“Hey,” Keith says, words muffled. He looks warm and cosy in sweats and an oversized jumper, hair fluffy and scarf wrapped all the way up to his reddened nose. Shiro barely manages to stop the beginnings of a dopey smile from spreading across his face. 

“Hi to you too.” He pulls his bag off the seat of the extra chair and nudges it towards Keith. “You didn’t have to come all the way here. It’s cold out.”

Keith shrugs, folding himself into the recently vacated chair. He props his chin up on his palm and studies Shiro. “Wasn’t tired, so here I am. How’s studying?”

“Pretty good, actually.” Shiro thumbs through his notebook, which was brand new before his intensive study session. It’s now half-filled, each page packed with notes and annotations (and possibly a doodle or two). “I have just a little more to finish before I’ll call it a night, but I’m pretty sure my brain is fried.”

“You should take a break,” Keith suggests. “Watch some cute dog videos or something.”

Shiro opens his Facebook app and turns the screen of his phone towards Keith. “I think I’ve watched all the ones you reposted on Facebook. See?” He scrolls through his timeline in order to emphasize his point. 

At that, Keith chuckles. “Yeah, I know. You liked all of them.”

There’s a brief lull in conversation when Keith digs through his many layers to reach the pocket where his phone is kept. He pulls it out with a triumphant glimmer in his eyes and unlocks it, tapping and scrolling away until he slides the phone across the table to Shiro. 

“I have more,” is his explanation. “I save a lot of them in a folder so I can access them if I’m ever in a situation with no Internet.”

Sure enough, there in a folder named (。♥‿♥。), are over two hundred videos and pictures of dogs. Just from a quick scroll through, Shiro can tell that Keith is a dog lover. His love isn’t focused on a handful of breeds, either, because Shiro sees dogs of all sizes, colours, coats… 

“Wow,” he utters. “This is… a gold mine. Of dogs”

Keith, smug as hell, moves his chair to Shiro’s side. They spend a good twenty minutes going through the folder, sharing a pair of earphones between them to watch the videos, only stopping when Shiro glances at his watch and groans at the time. 

“I’m so sorry, but I really have to finish this. You don’t have to –”

“Nonsense,” Keith interrupts. “I’ll keep you company.”

And he does, minding his own business as Shiro studies. Shiro, immensely appreciative of having someone there to take the dull loneliness of studying away, tackles his work with renewed motivation. He’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t notice Keith taking a picture of him and smiling at the screen. 


	2. Chapter 2

Exam season passes in a flurry of papers, smudges of ink of skin, and an excess of coffee. Before long, strung-out students are packing to leave for Christmas break, everyone looking forward to de-stressing over the next couple of weeks somewhere far, far away from campus. 

Shiro’s last final is on the last day of the exam period – talk about bad luck –, so by the time he steps out of the exam hall as a free man, most of his friends have already left. At least he gets to say goodbye to Keith. 

He opens the door to see Keith seated cross-legged on the floor, clothes spread out all around him and an empty suitcase off to the side. His hair is swept up into a high pony, and Shiro thinks the tiny, swinging tail is adorable.

“Having trouble?” Shiro drops his backpack by the foot of his bed and joins Keith on the floor.

Keith grimaces and brandishes a pair of mismatched socks in Shiro’s face. “So what do you wear to meet your mother’s boyfriend? Apparently things are getting serious with them and she really wants me to like him. His name is weird. Kolivan or something.”

Shiro chuckles, reaching to his right for a pair of jeans. “I wouldn’t know, but maybe these? Can’t go wrong with a pair of jeans, unless he’s weird and thinks that jeans are beneath him.”

The look of abject horror that crosses Keith’s face has Shiro dissolving into helpless giggles. 

“It’s not funny,” Keith protests, but the smile he fails to suppress clearly says otherwise. He snatches the jeans out of Shiro’s hands and places it into his suitcase.

With Shiro’s help, Keith finishes packing in no time. If Shiro suggested a few articles of clothing he thinks Keith looks amazing in, well, no one else will know. After Keith zips up his suitcase, they remain seated on the floor, legs stretched out in front of them with Keith’s socked feet brushing against the outside of Shiro’s thigh. 

“Excited to see your mother?”

Keith’s brow furrows in thought. “Yeah, I am. But it hasn’t been long since we found each other, so sometimes things can get a little awkward. She doesn’t know things about me that a parent should know about their child, and I don’t know things about her that I should, as her son.” He pauses, then huffs out a shy laugh. “She loves me though, that much I know. That’s enough.”

When Shiro squeezes Keith’s ankle, he gets a soft smile in reward. 

“Hey. You’ll be okay here?”

Shiro, of course, isn’t going anywhere for the holidays. Where would he go?

“I’ll be fine,” Shiro says. His hand stays curled around Keith’s ankle, thumb brushing absently along the edge of his sock. “It’ll be nice, seeing the campus free of students for a change. I won’t have to wait twenty minutes for a cup of coffee!”

He feels pressure against his thigh, and Shiro glances down to see Keith prodding at him with his toes. 

“Don’t spend all your time in the rink, okay? Pidge told me that there’s a Christmas Market in town; you should go and check it out sometime.”

Shiro finds himself promising Keith that he will, even going so far as to top it off with their pinkies locked. Then Keith’s phone buzzes – it’s his mother, messaging to tell him that she’s downstairs. 

With great reluctance, Shiro lets go of Keith’s ankle and gets to his feet, watching as Keith slips into his shoes and shrugs into a leather jacket. At the door, Keith pushes his suitcase out ahead of him and turns around.

They’re mere feet apart, Keith in the doorway and Shiro with his hand on the handle. 

“See you soon, Shiro.” 

Before Shiro can reply, Keith’s stepping into his personal space, arms winding around his waist and face fitting perfectly into the curve of his neck. Shiro breathes in the scent of Keith’s hair and holds him close with a hand to the small of his back. He wonders if Keith can hear the pounding of his heart.

The hug ends far too soon, and Shiro misses Keith’s warmth instantly. But he takes joy in the swath of colour spreading across Keith’s cheeks and says, “See you soon, Keith. Happy holidays.”

  
The days go by with an almost gossamery air. 

Keeping himself occupied turns out to be surprisingly easy, his time divided mainly between the cafe, the rink and his room. He gets a headstart on his lecture readings, tucked away in a booth and breathing in the aroma of coffee beans. With every finished chapter, Shiro feels a little less stressed out in the face of the upcoming semester, something that he knows he’ll greatly appreciate in due time. 

He works on a few plays, bringing the hockey team’s training equipment out and using it to his heart’s desire. What he decides to send to Matt is greeted with approval and a promise to show their coach. Encouraged, Shiro runs through those plays a few times a day just to make sure he knows them like the back of his hand. 

On the rare days he doesn’t feel like pulling on his skates, he works off excess energy in the gym, headphones clamped securely over his ears as his feet pound rhythmically off the treadmill. He stares at his reflection in the floor-length mirrors, at the strain of his bicep when he curls a thirty-pound dumbbell, and wonders how he lacked the strength to defend himself when he most needed to. 

He sleeps when he wants and wakes when his body tells him to. Oftentimes in the mornings, he’ll gaze up at the ceiling and watch as the shadows of the leaves outside dance on the surface, white paint speckled with sunlight. Keith’s bed stays empty, but the mere presence of Keith’s stuff is good enough. 

Shiro’s YouTube recommendations, once a mix of music and ice hockey, are gradually replaced with figure skating videos. 

He watches program after program, taking mental notes on the various elements and the scoring system. It’s an astounding sport, he learns, a heart-stopping blend of artistry and athleticism. Stories are told within minutes, the cut of blades on ice bringing viewers into a whole new world. 

Out of curiosity, he Googles a list of figure skating clubs in the area. He bookmarks a few websites, just in case. 

Keith texts him daily, updating him on the boyfriend ( _he does MMA, holy shit_ ), where he’s gone with his mother ( _she’s renovating the den in her house and she dragged me to five different furniture stores, HELP_ ), and the puppy they adopt from an animal shelter ( _isn’t he adorable?? i think im gonna name him kosmo. his fur is pitch black, like the universe._ ). 

Somewhere during the second week, after Keith sends him a picture of himself in a chair at the hair salon, Shiro finally admits to the empty room at large that he’s falling in love. 

  
_merry xmas, shiro :) check under my bed for your present!_

Heart in his throat, Shiro gets on all fours and peers beneath Keith’s bed. Sure enough, he spots a box, wrapped in simple red paper that has shines ever-so-slightly. Shiro pulls it out and sees his name printed across the middle in Sharpie, the letters as fluid as the way Keith moves on ice. 

He unwraps the box carefully. The paper comes away to reveal a set of new hockey skates, top of the line, the leather a gleaming black and laces a blood red. 

Shiro takes them out of the box, running his thumb along the blade cover. He checks the size – his exact size. 

His phone pings with another text. 

_i noticed that your skates are quite old; here’s a new pair to keep your feet safe! hope you like them :)_

_I love them, Keith. Thank you so much. Merry Christmas :)_

He pulls the skates on and sends Keith a picture. Once it sends, Shiro takes them off and places them back into the box. If he didn’t already have plans, he would be heading to the rink right now with the skates, but he has something more important to do. 

  
On New Year’s Eve, Shiro comes back from the gym to find Keith in the room. He freezes in the doorway, momentarily wondering if what he’s seeing is a hallucination. Keith isn’t supposed to be due back in town for another week or so.

“...Keith?”

As it turns out, it’s not a hallucination. There, sitting on the edge of his bed, is Keith. He’s in the middle of sorting out his laundry, looking warm and comfortable in flannel pants and a cotton tank, bare feet nearly hidden by the flare of his pant legs. His suitcase lies open next to him, half-empty. 

“Hey. I decided to come home – ah, come back early.”

Shiro shuts the door behind him. 

“Why? Don’t you want to spend as much time as you can with your mother?”

“Oh, she’s actually on a trip with her man. I was supposed to tag along, but I really didn’t want to be the third wheel. They’re quite gross, you know.” He pulls a face at whatever mental image he’d inadvertently pulled up, and Shiro can’t help but laugh.

He goes about putting his things away, but he’s barely unzipped his bag before Keith clears his throat and says, “And I thought you might want some company.”

Shiro’s head snaps up, damp hair falling into his eyes as he looks across the room at Keith. Their gazes meet, lock, and it takes Shiro’s brain an embarrassingly long time to kickstart. 

“If it’s you, of course,” says Shiro in a sudden burst of courage.

Keith blushes beautifully, and oh, how Shiro so desperately wants to press his lips against Keith’s cheek.

  
Later that night, Keith returns from his shower to see a gift bag sitting atop his duvet. 

“What’s this?”

Shiro looks up from his phone and smiles. “It’s your Christmas present.”

Inside is a plush toy – a black labrador, to be specific –, and Keith’s eyes light up the moment he sees it. 

“I took your advice and went to the Christmas market, where I saw this at one of the many stalls. It reminded me of your new puppy, and since no pets are allowed in the dorms, I thought this would be a good substitute.”

Keith cuddles it close, stroking at one of the soft, velvety ears. 

“I’ll name this one Cosmo, with a C.” Keith says happily.

“There’s something else,” Shiro tells him, heart swelling at the way Keith tucks the plush securely against his side before reaching back into the bag. 

Shiro hears the crinkle of paper, then the sound of it ripping. Acutely aware of the silence that’s starting to ripple through the room, he keeps his gaze on the screen of his phone and waits for it to be broken. 

“Shiro, this is…”

The paper is creasing in Keith’s grasp. Shiro wishes he could see his face, but it’s obscured by his mop of hair, fluffy and unruly from his shower, curling around his jaw and down the slope of elegant shoulders. Shiro wonders how soft they would feel if he had the chance to bury his fingers amongst the strands. 

Shiro waits for the rest of Keith’s sentence, but Keith seems to have lost his own train of thought. So Shiro decides to put himself out of his misery, climbing out of bed and crossing the tiny distance between them. 

“I did my research.” He stares at the edge of the paper as it droops and wonders if Keith considers this a gift. “This club seemed to have the best training framework and their coaches have great experience. If you’re interested, you can send in a clip of you skating – I talked to the vice-president for a short while and she’s open to welcoming you to the competitive roster if she likes what she sees.”

Eyes the colour of dusk move to rest on him, the heavy weight of Keith’s gaze wrought with an emotion Shiro can’t quite place his finger on. 

Keith draws in a deep breath, holds it in thought, then exhales. “You really think I can make it?”

The absurdity of Keith’s question takes Shiro completely by surprise.

“Do I think – Of _course_ I think you can make it,” Shiro splutters. “Have you never watched yourself skate?”

A helpless shrug, then Keith’s flopping down onto his bed, folding the letter from the club’s vice-president into half. Cosmo stays plastered to his side.

“I never considered it,” he admits. “Joining a club, participating in competitions...it was never a plausible reality for me.”

Keith seems so perplexed by the entire situation that Shiro is suddenly overcome with the need to prove his point. He rests a hand on Keith’s shoulder, thumb brushing against the juncture of his neck. When Keith leans into the touch, Shiro thinks he can feel the quickened beat of his pulse. 

“Let’s go to the rink tomorrow.” Before Keith has the chance to worm his way out of it, Shiro tugs gently on a lock of hair and continues, “Skate only if you feel like it. I’m gonna run through some plays – maybe you can offer some suggestions for improvement?”

Much to Shiro’s relief, Keith nods. 

  
Crisp air, empty rink. The blades of his new skates cut perfectly across the smooth ice, bringing him from one side to the other in seconds. Shiro skates over to Keith, coming to a stop just a few inches short of where he’s leaning against one of the dasher boards, helpfully holding onto Shiro’s clipboard. He’d brought his own skates, but they’re in a bag instead of on his feet. 

No matter, Shiro thinks. The day has just begun, and if Keith loves skating as much as he loves ice hockey – which Shiro is pretty sure he does –, then he will be flying across the ice in no time. 

“You came up with all of these over the break?”

Keith thumbs through the sheaf of papers, absently tucking a lock of hair behind his ear before it falls and blocks his view. From where he’s digging up the team’s stash of pucks, Shiro looks over and nods. 

“Spent a lot of time here, then?” 

Despite the deceptively light tone of Keith’s voice, Shiro knows just what he’s implying. Grinning, he tosses a few pucks out onto the rink and says, “I spent just the right amount of time here – I didn’t break the promise I made you.”

Mollified, Keith lets the papers fall back down onto the flat of the clipboard and he raises his head to fix Shiro with an expectant look. 

“Well, go on then.” He gestures to the otherwise empty rink. “Let me see what that wonderful mind of yours has come up with. I’ll be here watching, pretending I know what it is that you’re doing out there on the ice.”

Shiro laughs and reaches for his hockey stick. “And you call yourself a hockey fan?”

A sharp eyebrow crooks. “When have I ever said I was a hockey fan, Shirogane? I’ve only said that I watch some games, most of them thanks to the bribery of a friend.”

Mouth hanging open in mock outrage, Shiro glides backwards out on the ice, away from where Keith’s standing and trying to suppress his laughter. “Despicable,” he cries, “everyone is an ice hockey fan!”

Keith shrugs. “Hey, the players are the reason fans even watch the sport, no?”

Shiro tries not to read too much into what that could possibly mean, because if his hunch is right and Keith is alluding to the fact that he’s been going to his games because he likes watching _him_ , he may very well spontaneously combust on the spot. 

So he focuses on running through his plays, taking the opportunity to continue breaking in the new leather as well. They’re great skates, a snug fit around the entirety of his foot with just enough give in the material to not be uncomfortable, and not for the first time, Shiro wonders just how much Keith spent on them. He could simply Google how much the skates are, but it feels just a little rude. 

If he could, he would’ve spent a bit more on Keith’s present. But it had taken most of his savings to leave and come here, so Shiro simply makes a mental note to return Keith’s generosity at a later date. 

He’s worked up a bit of a sweat by the time he heads back to Keith’s side. The skater’s obviously not actually following his plays – not that Shiro expected him to. The clipboard is set aside and Keith’s got a contemplative look in his eyes. 

Shiro takes a long drink of ice-cold water. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You have such confidence about you when you’re playing hockey. When you’re competing, when you’re at practice, when you’re with no one else but me. You’re…” Keith waves a hand, trying to grasp the words he wants out of thin air. In the end, he settles for: “Magnetic. I find it fascinating.”

“You’ve seen our team practices?”

Keith snorts – objectively unattractively, but subjectively adorably. “That’s what you choose to focus on? Yes, Shiro, I’ve seen some practices. Sometimes I use the rink after, remember?”

His bottle rolls off the top of the dasher board and clatters to the ice. As Shiro bends to retrieve it, his eyes come to land on the bag containing Keith’s skates. 

“Have you ever watched yourself skate, Keith?”

“Yeah, of course. I had to, especially since I was essentially self-taught. But ever since I learned all that I could, I stopped recording.”

Feeling a little daring, Shiro peels off a glove and reaches out to skim the line of Keith’s jaw with his fingertips. His heart sings when the corner of Keith’s mouth twitches upwards at the touch. “Skate for me? I want to record you. You should see what _you_ look like out there.”

He can see an excuse already beginning to form on Keith’s lips, so Shiro jumps ahead and says, “Please.” Just the one word has Keith deflating, shoulders sagging in resignation. 

“Alright,” Keith sighs. “I’m only doing this for you.”

Beaming, Shiro dips a hand into his gym bag and brings out a portable speaker, one he’d stashed inside before they left their room. Keith pauses for a brief moment before he laughs, fondly exasperated, and lets Shiro plug in his phone while he brings out his skates. 

He laces up with astonishing speed, lithe fingers working the laces around the hooks and into a double knot like he’s done it since birth. When he gets to his feet and steps out onto the ice, Shiro finds himself thinking that Keith moves more naturally on blades than off. 

Shiro selects a random song as background music for Keith’s warm-up before he totters over to his bag, where he pulls out his blade covers and slips them on. Returning to the edge of the rink, Shiro’s eyes are immediately drawn to the small figure darting across the ice, arms extended gracefully as raven hair whips in the wind.

After a couple of songs have passed, Keith comes out of a camel spin and glides over to where Shiro is. There’s colour riding on the ridges of his cheekbones and his eyes are bright.

“You’re really going to record me?”

Shiro answers by brandishing his phone. “Just show me something that you’re proud of. It doesn’t have to be super flashy or anything, just a piece that you’ve put your heart into.”

“I put my heart into everything I do,” Keith jokes. Then he smooths out his shirt and runs his palms down the sides of his thighs; a nervous tic, Shiro assumes. “Okay. I’ll try.”

He fiddles with his phone, glancing up at Shiro for a brief second before returning his gaze to the screen. “This means something to _you_ , doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Shiro admits, but he doesn’t choose to elaborate and Keith doesn’t push. Instead, Keith simply nods and sets his phone down, asking Shiro to press Play once he’s in the centre of the ring. 

Shiro readies his own phone, presses _Play_ on Keith’s, and takes a deep breath. 

  
Ice falls off the sharp edges of Keith’s skates in flakes and Shiro’s heart is in his mouth. He’s seen Keith skate, has even shared the ice with him on a couple of occasions, but he has never seen Keith _perform_. It’s worlds better than anything he could have imagined, the music and Keith’s artistry combining to produce pure art out on the chilled surface of the ice rink. 

Keith skates like his life depends on it. Sure, Shiro enjoys ice hockey more than your average person, and there are times he would say that it’s one of his passions, but it’s obvious that Keith lives to skate. 

Blade covers land against the rubber mats with a muted _thwack_ as Shiro whips them off and darts over to where Keith is. The figure skater’s moving in slow circles, hands resting in the subtle dips of his waist as he catches his breath. He tracks Shiro’s approach, violet eyes striking underneath all the lights. 

As soon as he’s within arm’s reach, Shiro holds out his phone, the newly saved recording still up on the screen.

“There’s a reason that this is important to me.” Keith takes the phone and starts the clip, lashes trembling as he follows a miniature version of himself across the screen.

“You’re meant for greater things, Keith, for more than empty bleachers and only your friends as adoring fans. You have all the talent and skill you need to achieve your dreams – you just need someone who believes in you and is willing to help you.” Shiro inches closer, curls a hand around the sharp jut of Keith’s elbow. “You’re one of the most independent people I know, but you don’t always have to rely on yourself. If you’d let me, I would –”

Shiro’s sound of surprise is muffled against Keith’s lips, and through the roar of blood rushing through his veins, he hears the distinctive sound of his phone meeting the surface of the ice. Fingers clutch at him, bunching up the fabric of his shirt, and Shiro can feel the bluntness of nails skating over his skin through the cotton. A sound escapes from the gap between their mouths, something high and breathless and sparking with want, and it has Shiro pressing even closer. 

Doubts and fears are already rising up to the surface, bubbling thick and bitter and heartbreakingly familiar, but Keith’s mouth is soft against his own, fierce and willing and perfect. How in the world can Shiro hope to fight that?

He pulls Keith closer, an arm around a tapered waist and a hand cradling the base of his skull, and kisses him. Kisses him, kisses him. Kisses him until they’re both in need of oxygen and they break apart, lips swollen and chests heaving. 

“I’m…sorry,” Keith says quietly. There’s a crease between his brows that Shiro wants to smooth out with his thumb, or perhaps his lips. “I shouldn’t have done that without asking if it was okay.”

Shiro touches him on the chin, lifts his head with two fingers. He reads uncertainty painted all over Keith’s face, and he doesn’t like the fact that it’s there. “Probably, but I’m definitely not complaining.”

A soft sigh, then Keith slips his arms around Shiro’s middle and tucks his cheek into the crook of Shiro’s neck. “I’m also sorry about dropping your phone.”

Shiro laughs into Keith’s hair. 

  
For the students still on campus, there are a few house parties already in full swing, but Shiro and Keith decide to stay in their room for a quiet New Year’s instead. 

At 11:56 P.M., Shiro reaches out for Keith’s hand, threading the fingers of his scarred arm through Keith’s slender ones. When Keith brushes the pad of his thumb across the jagged range of his knuckles, Shiro stares out the window, at the few stars twinkling up in the night sky, and takes a breath. 

“I have been through a lot, Keith. I am broken, battered, bruised, and simply not the best choice for a stable relationship. I wish I were, I wish I could be everything that you deserve, but you should know that being with me will be challenging and frustrating, perhaps more than you will expect.”

There, at 11:57 P.M. on New Year’s Eve, on his bed and seated against the wall with pillows behind their backs, Shiro waits for the inevitable question. Yet, no question comes. 

Keith doesn’t turn to face him, but he gives Shiro’s hand a squeeze and says, “I think you’ll come to realise, Shiro, that no one is perfect. We all come with our own baggage – if we are lucky enough to meet someone who is willing to accept that and work with it, then that’s all that matters.

“You’re not broken,” Keith continues. “You don’t need to be fixed.” He looks down at their joined hands and traces the curve of Shiro’s thumbnail with the pad of a finger. “You’re scared though, aren’t you? Of letting yourself feel again, of opening up to someone else?” 

He takes Shiro’s silence in stride. 

“It’s okay if you are. I am, too. Growing up, I spent far too much time and effort fending for myself and trying to navigate a world without much guidance, and I ended up not trusting most people. It was just easier that way – avoiding close relationships meant that I couldn’t blame anyone else but myself if something went wrong. I liked that sense of security. I know our situations are probably vastly different, but I just want to tell you that I understand. To some degree, anyway.” Keith pauses, and this time, he looks over. “Am I talking too much?”

Shiro can’t help but laugh. “No, not at all. I enjoy listening to you speak. But it is twenty seconds to midnight, and I would really like to kiss you without interrupting you.”

The curve of Keith’s lips grows in time with the flurry of blossoming fireworks in the sky, and as he leans in, Shiro finds himself thinking that all those colourful explosions outside fail to compare with the ones currently filling his stomach.

Keith’s free hand curls around his jaw and Shiro instantly pities his past self, the one that never expected to make it to the new year. Then Keith parts his lips and Shiro decides that it’s time he tries to get out of the past, because what’s the point of moving on if he doesn’t move on?

As cheers ring outside, Shiro tangles fingers in Keith’s hair and pulls him closer. This is a celebration of his own.

  
“Look, Ronnie, I’m simply not interested.” 

Neatly side-stepping a puddle of spilled cappuccino on the floor, Veronica shoots him an unimpressed look and knocks the café’s door open with a hip. How she’s able to do all that with a large gym bag over her shoulder, a stack of papers on her arm, and a large cup of coffee – along with her phone! – in her hand is beyond Shiro’s understanding. 

“Not good enough, Shirogane. I’m gonna need a better excuse than that.”

It’s a chilly morning, but the sun is shining bright and light glitters beautifully off the fallen snow in fractals. Shiro likes winter; sure, it’s a hassle when you’re constantly tracking wet dirt indoors and when you can’t move your limbs well due to all the layers, but the air is always crisp and there’s a child-like joy to playing in snow that brings a warmth to Shiro’s heart.

They’ve just been assigned a project, and because Veronica is a very good student, Shiro finds himself trailing after her as she leads the way to his room in order to get a headstart on it. Outside, students are wrapped up in scarves and wooly hats, cheeks tinged pink with cold as they hurry into buildings. They weave their way through them, and as soon as they reach the door to his residence, Shiro stops Veronica and makes her stomp the snow off the soles of her boots before he lets her inside. 

“Look,” she says when Shiro doesn’t offer up more than a few vague shrugs, “it’s healthy to date. You don’t have to _marry_ the guy, just… go out and have fun.”

Shiro ushers her into the elevator and hits 5. The door slides shut with a thud and they begin their trundling ascension upwards.

“Ronnie, if you force me to go to a blind date that I never wanted, I’m not going to have fun.”

With the heaviest put-upon sigh that Shiro has ever heard, Veronica slumps against the side of the elevator and slants her gaze over to him. “Fine. But don’t come crawling to me when you want a date and I no longer have one to offer you.”

“I don’t need a date,” Shiro smiles, unable to help the way his mind flies instantly to Keith. It’s been almost a month since the start of the year, and their budding relationship has been all sorts of wonderful. They haven’t quite gotten around to addressing what exactly they are to each other, but Shiro doesn’t mind. It takes a whole lot of pressure off his shoulders, knowing that Keith isn’t demanding for labels or any other proof of commitment and is happy just being together. 

The elevator door opens and Shiro steps out. Turning the corner, he waves at a passing acquaintance and graciously accepts a couple of well wishes given by fellow hall mates for his upcoming game next week. 

Unlocking his door with a smooth twist of the key, Shiro pushes it open to see a darkened room with Keith curled up on his bed, face tucked into Shiro’s pillow and covers pulled up to his shoulders. 

Shiro stands in the doorway, feet rooted to the ground at the honest-to-god adorable sight, and Veronica gets curious when he doesn’t budge for several seconds. Rising up onto her tiptoes, she peers over Shiro’s shoulder.

“Is that Keith in your bed?”

“Mm,” is all Shiro manages. 

“It’s…” A pause, “almost one in the afternoon. Shouldn’t he be awake by now?”

Shiro moves then, stepping aside to let Veronica in before he quietly shuts the door.

“He had a long night, then an early class today.” His bag hits the floor and Shiro pads over to his bedside, leaning over Keith’s slumbering frame to sweep strands of hair out of his face. “Probably hasn’t had lunch…”

A deep sleeper, Keith doesn’t stir at Shiro’s touch nor his voice. He does, however, burrow deeper into Shiro’s pillow with a snuffle, toes peeking out from the bottom edge of the covers when he uncurls into a stretch. Oh, Shiro can’t help but smooth his thumb down the soft curve of Keith’s cheek. 

He wants nothing more than to climb into bed next to Keith and press his cheek to the warm skin of Keith’s neck, but he has a few things to do. First, he has to pop downstairs to grab Keith some food, then he’ll –

Oh, he’d completely forgotten that Veronica was here. 

She’s leaning against his desk, her pile of textbooks into a haphazard mess behind her. Shiro winces; she looks like she’s just discovered the meaning of life. 

“So _that’s_ why you’re not interested in going on a blind date,” she whisper-shouts, index finger wagging accusingly in Shiro’s face. 

Now that the cat’s out of the bag, Shiro doesn’t bother trying to deny it. Keeping it quiet was a mutual agreement, but as the days have gone by, Shiro has come to realise that the idea of people knowing about them isn’t as scary as he’d imagined. 

“Yeah.” Shiro leans over to fix the covers, tucking Keith’s bare feet back into warmth. “He’s…heh, yeah, he’s why.”

“Since the first time I asked?”

Keith sneezes in his sleep and Shiro’s heart does the stupidest flip in his chest. 

“I think so. Didn’t want it to be the case then, if I’m honest, but I can’t really deny it now.” An itch spreads up the side of Shiro’s neck at that admission, and he scratches at it incessantly until Veronica stops him with a gentle hand on his arm. 

She looks at him, eyes kind, and says, “Just be happy in the now, Shiro.”

The now. The present. The good. Shiro takes a breath.

“Do you want to come downstairs with me? I’m gonna get him some lunch.”

Veronica nods, shoulders rolling back to shed her winter jacket. “Only if you buy me a snack. I’m craving some chips.”

“Deal.”

  
For one of the most important games of the season, the team finds itself with one starter short. Having recently injured his knee during practice, Griffin’s seating out, looking painfully disgruntled (and out of place) as he sits on the players’ bench without his gear. 

But despite the little hiccup in their line-up, they’re doing just fine. For the past few weeks, they’ve been incorporating a couple of Shiro’s plays into practice, and everything seems to be running smoothly. Second intermission into the game and they’re leading by a comfortable margin; a score that their spectators are immensely happy about. 

Inside the locker room, Shiro wriggles his helmet off and lets the row of lockers take his weight. Hair sticks to his neck and his lungs ache for air, but it’s pure adrenaline that runs through his veins and he cannot wait to get back out there. They already qualify for the playoffs, but the outcome of this game will determine their seeding – the team hasn’t held a trophy in their hands for three years, and Shiro wants to be part of the reason for breaking that streak. 

Next to him, Matt drains half a bottle of Gatorade in one go and lets out the most satisfied groan Shiro has ever heard.

“Shit, what a season, huh?” Matt keeps his voice low, eyes trained on their coach as he speaks to the team at large. “Don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m happy as hell that you transferred here. You’re a breath of fresh air on this team, Shirogane.”

Grinning, Shiro knocks their shoulders together, thumbing at a bead of sweat that rolls down his temple at the sudden contact. 

“Just doing my best, Cap’n.”

A sweaty group huddle later and they’re heading back out onto the rink, cheers ringing loud within the enclosure of the rink. Shiro casts a reflexive glance up at the stands, eyes instantly finding the soft gleam of Keith’s hair under the lights. The skater’s caught up in conversation – looks more like an argument, to be honest – with Lance and isn’t paying attention to the third period that’s about to commence, but Shiro doesn’t mind. 

Simply knowing that Keith’s here to support him is more than enough, especially when he’s in the throes of the game and he hears Keith’s half-cheer, half-scream of his name. 

Fingers flexing around the handle of his hockey stick, Shiro redirects his full attention to the ice. Alright, time to make himself proud. 

  
“Shiro!”

Pulse already racing after a fresh 6-3 win, it speeds up a little more when Shiro turns around at that familiar voice to see Keith sprinting down the stairs towards him, hair a whirlwind behind him. 

“Shiro,” Keith repeats, somehow managing to weave his way through the crowd without running into a single person. He stops a couple of feet away, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. 

Keith’s hand is reaching out for him, so Shiro meets him halfway. He’s still got his gloves on, but Keith doesn’t seem to mind, fingers gripping the tough material as he steps closer. 

“I got in, Shiro.”

Before confusion has the chance to befall Shiro, Keith holds up his phone and shows him the screen. Pulled up is an email, and Shiro spends a few seconds squinting at the words before he realises what they say. 

Keith’s been accepted into the skating club.

“Oh,” Shiro breathes,. “Keith, I –” 

The rest of his sentence comes rushing out of his lungs in one long breath when Keith barrels into him, arms wrapping around his middle, tight as a vice. It must be uncomfortable, hugging someone decked out in hockey gear, but Keith clings on, nose squished against Shiro’s shoulder pad. 

“Thank you for believing in me.”

There, standing at the edge of the ice rink, surrounded by teammates and friends alike, Shiro kisses the top of Keith’s head. “Always.” 

Somewhere in the vicinity, Lance does an odd impression of a cat dropped into a tub filled with water and Keith snorts before pulling away. He smiles up at Shiro, all beautiful, and Shiro really wants to kiss him for a whole hour without stopping for breath.

“Congrats on your win, by the way. You were amazing out there.” With a hand against Shiro’s chest for balance, Keith rises up on his tiptoes and leans in to brush his lips against the line of Shiro’s jaw. “So proud of you.”

Yeah, Shiro thinks, it’s a good day. 

  
Steam curls around him, painting the room the colour of London Fog and seeping into his pores. The bathroom is miniscule, which means that showers are always a stifling matter because the heat has nowhere to escape. Shiro drags the base of his fist over the mirror, skin squeaking against the glass, and clears a hole big enough for his face. 

He’s just about to blast a jet of hot air at his hair when a flurry of knocks sound. 

“Shiro? Can I come in? I _really_ need to pee.”

Towel around his waist, Shiro reaches over to the door and opens it, letting out a cloud of steam as cool air floods in. Keith darts past him and Shiro turns away out of courtesy, chuckling when he hears Keith’s sigh of relief followed by the muffled sound of liquid streaming into the toilet bowl. 

“Sorry, didn’t want to barge in, but I was actually about to explode out there. I had two big cups of coffee in two hours; not recommended, especially when the public bathrooms are gross.”

“That’s alright.” Shiro dabs a dollop of aftershave along the freshly shaved skin of his jaw and rises the excess off his hands. “It’s not good to hold in your pee, after all.”

With the door open, the humidity inside the bathroom dissipates quickly and Shiro decides to let his hair dry naturally instead. His hair tends to fluff up way too much when he blow-dries it anyway. Then Keith flushes and moves towards the sink, bumping hips with Shiro when he leans in to wash his hands. 

“You look really cuddly right now,” Keith informs him, glancing up at him through the mirror. “Wanna cuddle after you’re done?”

There’s really nothing in the world that can prepare someone for a moment like this, so Shiro stares at Keith for a good four seconds, acutely aware of a singular drop of water rolling down his back the entire time, before he splutters out an, “O-okay.”

Keith leaves with a smile, dragging a wet palm along the towel at Shiro’s waist as he goes. The door shuts behind him and Shiro dresses in a daze, blushing when he accidentally puts his shirt on inside-out. 

One last pass of the towel through his hair and Shiro exits the bathroom, finding Keith already out of his jeans and in a soft pair of sweats, plopped atop his bed and fiddling with his tangled pair of earphones.

“How was your tutoring session?”

“Good,” Keith says, giving up on the knot and tossing his earphones onto his desk. “Made more than enough for a nice date, if you’re interested.”

Shiro laughs, accepting Keith’s proffered hand. One hefty yank later and he ends up sprawled over Keith, the latter’s hair spread out around his head like an ashen halo, pretty mouth within reach and oh-so-inviting. Shiro takes the bait, leaning down to gift that mouth with a kiss.

“A gorgeous man wanting to take me out on a date? How could I ever say no?” 

These dormitory beds aren’t made to hold two adults, especially not when one is Shiro’s size. But they’re cuddling, not sleeping, so proximity is optimal. It takes a bit of rearranging, but they end up on their sides, back to chest, with Shiro’s chin resting on the top of Keith’s head. 

The scent of fresh spring air still clings to Keith’s skin and Shiro breathes it in greedily, loving how Keith’s natural scent seeps through. Soft cotton lies under his palm, muscles of a lean abdomen lying just beneath that layer, thin enough for Shiro to feel the dip of Keith’s belly button. 

“I’m ticklish,” Keith complains, but he makes no effort to stop Shiro’s fingers from ghosting along his middle. 

Shiro apologises with a kiss behind Keith’s ear. 

They lie together in companionable silence, Shiro’s foot wedged between Keith’s calves as the skater plays a game on his phone. Shiro doesn’t mind the quiet, perfectly content with having Keith in his arms, warm under the covers and heads propped up on a pillow that’s lumpy in all the right parts. 

Outside, the sun is just starting to fall below the horizon and Shiro’s just drifting off into a nice doze when Keith rests a hand on his bicep.

“Shiro?”

“Hmm?”

A pause, then Keith clears his throat and continues, “Can I ask how you got that scar on your arm?”

Well, Shiro’s definitely wide awake now. 

His entire body is tense, like a bowstring pulled taut, anxiety-laced arrow ready to fire. It’s obvious that Keith can feel it, because he twists around in Shiro’s hold and scoots up the bed to rest their foreheads together. 

“Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I was just curious. Glimpsed it for the first time just now, in the bathroom? It must hold some meaning, because it’s clear that you intentionally cover it up.” The hand by his hip moves up to the arm in question and Keith brushes his fingers over Shiro’s sleeve, right where the scar is. “I know I asked, but you don’t have to tell me.”

In the short time he’s been here, Shiro has made a whole lot of life-changing decisions. Where he is now is the culmination of them all, and while he finally feels safe and content for the first time in a long time, he knows that he’s still got a whole lot of choices to make. 

“I know I don’t have to,” he mumbles, eyes closed. “I want to, though.”

Keith, ever patient and perceptive when it comes to Shiro, waits silently. Warm fingers slip up underneath the back of Shiro’s shirt and trace absent patterns into his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Shiro takes a few seconds to simply focus on that feeling, on Keith’s touch grounding him, before he opens his eyes and leans back enough to catch that violet gaze. 

“My ex-boyfriend was abusive.” 

Those five words have defined and shaped three whole years of Shiro’s life, and this is the first time he has uttered them. It’s terrifying and anti-climatic all at the same time, because saying it makes it real, but saying it also isn’t what makes it real. He’d lived it, experienced it, and these few words shouldn’t be what holds him back from admitting it. 

Yet they have, for so long. 

“I met him in the summer of senior year in high school, at my summer job. He was a firecracker, charming and beautiful; it was hard not to be enamoured by him, really.” 

He pauses to let Keith move, huffing out a quiet laugh when he’s forced to turn around so that Keith can be the big spoon. Keith curls around him, already fiercely protective in the wake of his admission. 

“I remember the day I asked him out. I'd just finished my shift and there he was, outside, sipping at a smoothie. The words just came tumbling out of me, but somehow I didn't make a fool out of myself and he agreed to go on a date with me.”

Shiro feels Keith nuzzling along his undercut and wonders what the short bristles of his hair must feel like against Keith's nose. 

“And so we went from there. The first few months were amazing; we found out that we got into the same university, and a new relationship compounded with a new chapter in life made things that much more exciting. But then, I guess the novelty of it all died down for him.”

His skin prickles and Shiro has the urge to get up and douse himself in ice-cold water, but Keith is a leech, refusing to budge from his spot around Shiro. 

“He's a small guy, compared to me. I never expected him to have that much strength.” He laughs, the sound hollow. “The first time he hit me, it was because I accidentally stepped on a pair of his shoes. They were new, white and expensive. He slapped me across the face so hard my ear rang for minutes.”

There's a frayed thread sticking out of Keith's space-themed sheets; Shiro stares at it as it flutters in the air. 

“Almost instantly after every act of physical abuse and explosion of anger, he'd revert back to being loving and apologetic in a heartbeat. Tears, getting down on his knees, promises that it'll never happen again…I think I've heard and seen it all.

“He gave me more than that one scar on my arm. But it's the one that people see and the one I remember most vividly. It was our second year anniversary, and I was late to get home because of hockey practice. I'd lost track of time, and when I got home he was…”

Shiro flinches at the image that pops up in his mind's eye. Behind him, Keith exhales and presses a kiss to Shiro's nape. For whose benefit, Shiro doesn't quite know, but he appreciates it all the same. 

“He said I valued the sport more than him, that I was neglecting him because of practice and games. When I tried to explain, he came at me with my skate, so I raised my arm to defend myself. The wound was so deep; blood was everywhere and the pain was nothing like I've ever felt before. I dressed it myself, on the floor in the shower, bandaging it tight enough to stop the bleeding until I could stitch it up.”

It's all coming out now, like water held back by a dam that's finally succumbed to the pressure, crumbling into sand.

“I had to go to physical therapy because he cut so deep into my tissue; couldn't play hockey for a whole semester. He was delighted. During those months when I could barely move my injured arm and needed his help, he never laid a hand on me.”

“Shiro.” Barely a whisper, but Shiro feels the syllables against his neck. Shiro gives Keith's fingers a squeeze. 

“I was refused to face facts, Keith. I had friends that figured it out long before I did, and I would spin all sorts of ridiculous excuses to protect him. Years – it took me years to accept that he never loved me the way I should be loved, that he treated me in a way no one should ever be treated. Putting in a request for a transfer was liberating, but having to keep the entire thing a secret was terrifying.”

He sits up suddenly and Keith follows, breath lodging in his throat when Shiro turns to him and pulls his shirt up over his head. 

This is the first time in a long time that someone other than himself has laid eyes on his bare body. None of his teammates have seen him shirtless, not even after practice when everyone is eager for a cold shower, stripping down as soon as they step into the locker room. 

Shiro has always changed in private or in the dark. Even Keith has never seen him in the light without his shirt on – everything that they've done together have been in the safety of their beds, under the sheets and with the lights off. 

But now, under the fluorescent lights, he lets Keith look. At the plethora of silvery lines down his chest and across his stomach, the thick drag of darkened scar tissue down his arm, the marks on his back that mirror those on his front. 

Keith stares, jaw working, and Shiro watches as emotion after emotion flits across his face. 

“The day I found out I was accepted here was the day I left. I always thought I'd regret it, you know? For some fucked up reason, I half expected to find myself running back to him. But hey, turns out I surprised myself. I never once looked back.”

Eyes still trained on Shiro's body, Keith settles a hand over the ridges of sculpted abs, the tips of his fingers brushing against a faint scar left behind by Shiro's weight colliding against a kitchen counter. 

Keith's brows knit together and Shiro wonders what he's thinking. 

“Well,” Shiro says, all fake cheer. “That's it, I suppose. Pathetic, huh? Someone my size getting beat –”

When Keith's head snaps up, expression an odd mix of frustration, anger, and sadness, all of Shiro's words leave his mouth. 

“If you finish that sentence, I'll get really upset.”

As soon as it becomes clear that Shiro isn't going to, Keith deflates. He shuffles onto Shiro's lap, hands coming up to cradle his jaw, careful and gentle.

“You are one of the strongest people I've had the pleasure to meet.” 

One hand slides down and over the curve of his scarred shoulder, travelling further down his arm until he feels Keith's fingers slipping between his own. 

“You're a fighter, Shiro.”

Keith, now practically wrapped around Shiro's torso like a koala, gifts him with a kiss, and Shiro finds himself believing him. 

“Will you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Call me by my first name?”

Lashes sweep down to brush against the shadows under Keith's eyes. “You're a wonderful, beautiful man, Takashi. So brave, so resilient.”

A traitorous tear slips free, but Keith simply brushes it away and pushes Shiro back down onto the bed. He goes easily, body exhausted from the workout his mind has just gone through. Keith is a welcome weight on him, all wildfire hair and eyes as bright as a mass of stars. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles into the space between them. 

Keith smooths Shiro's hair out of his face. “I did nothing, Shiro; you did everything by yourself. If you want to thank someone, thank yourself.”

Moments later, Shiro dozes off and Keith lies atop him, finally letting the tears he'd held back for so long run free. 

  
“Hi!”

Shiro turns to see Romelle traipsing up the stairs, hair gathered into a messy braid. 

They'd met a couple of months ago when Shiro and Keith celebrated Shiro's birthday at the club’s rink – Shiro had wanted Keith to teach him simple skating tricks, and they'd spent a good few hours out on the ice, laughing and falling and doing more kissing than skating. 

After a rather spectacular fall, they'd looked up at the sound of good-natured laughter. 

“You guys look like you're having so much fun.”

“Shiro, this is Romelle, a friend I met here at the club. Romelle, this is Shiro, my boyfriend and the light of my life.”

“Gross,” Romelle beamed, and Keith laughed. “Nice to finally meet you, Shiro. Keith talks about you whenever he gets a chance to; you're lucky I'm not easily annoyed.”

Shiro blushed an embarrassing shade of red and Romelle had left with a comment of how cute Shiro looks when he blushes. 

Now, she still remembers the ‘light of my life’ comment and never fails to inject it into conversation when he least expects it. Probably to see him blush again, Shiro thinks. 

“Waiting for Keith to finish practice?” 

Whenever Shiro's able to, he'll drop by the club to watch Keith skate, heading home together afterwards. It's only been a few months, but the benefit of having a professional coach is clear – Keith's natural-born talent at skating, once raw with unleashed strength, has been honed and polished into sharp, elegant power. A subtle difference, but noticeable to Shiro. 

“Yes,” Shiro says, moving his stuff aside to let her sit. “We have a date tonight.”

“Aw, cute.”

They spend a few minutes simply watching Keith glide across the ice, occasionally leading into a jump or a spin under the watchful eye of his coach. 

“He's really good,” Romelle says, sounding a little dreamy. “Sometimes he reminds me of a lion on the prowl.”

What a… unique statement. 

But Shiro voices his agreement, because she is complimenting Keith, after all. 

“Coach is thinking about entering him into a couple of competitions soon,” Romelle continues, propping her feet up on the empty seats in front. “But Keith tells me he's not too sure if he's ready yet.”

Shiro's not surprised – that sounds like something Keith would say. 

“It took a bit of convincing just to get him to apply to the club,” Shiro sighs. “It'll probably take a little more effort to get him to agree to a competition.”

Romelle shrugs. “He'll probably listen to you though; he really values your opinion.”

Down at the rink, Keith turns to wave up at them. Shiro returns it and files Romelle’s words away for later contemplation. 

  
Two weeks in another city; Shiro leaves on a sunny Thursday afternoon, lips kissed red by the time he joins his team by the coach bus, sports bag slung over a shoulder. Keith's unable to tag along, so Shiro has been enjoying an abundance of affection for the past few days leading up to his departure, the extra kisses and cuddles and tumbles in the hay intended to last them for at least a few days without the other’s presence. 

_good luck, love. i’ll miss you. bring home a trophy :)_

Shiro smiles down at the screen of his phone and turns just in time to block a wad of paper thrown at his head, courtesy of Griffin who wants his attention. 

The team sails through the round robin games effortlessly, nabbing a near-perfect score. They go out to celebrate after, all good food and good company, and their coach buys them all a round of drinks. 

That night, Shiro spends a ridiculous amount of time on the phone with Keith, basking in the praise and attention his boyfriend happily gives, only hanging up when Matt complains of not being able to fall asleep due to his sappy whispering. 

The tournament has a few days of downtime leading up to the quarterfinals, and everyone takes the chance to catch up on some school work. Shiro finds a quiet nook and ends up spending most of the days there, holed up with his laptop and studying while in a Skype call with Keith. 

The quarterfinals come around, which they win, 2-1. 

Then the semifinals – another 2-1 win. Shiro laughs when he sees an ecstatic Griffin knock Kinkade right off his skates. 

Before he's pulled away by his team, Shiro ducks aside to give Keith a call. 

“Babe, we did it. We made it to the finals.”

Keith all but shrieks in his ear. 

“Thought you weren't a hockey fan?” Shiro can't help but tease. 

“I'm not. I'm a Shirogane fan.”

Later, when Matt finds him, he gets a bemused, “I know we just won, but you look too happy. It's weird.” 

Shiro simply grins a little wider. 

  
In the end, they return home with a silver trophy and matching medals. It's not gold, but it's more than good enough for a team that's been craving a trophy of any sort to put up on display. They even nab the sportsmanship award and a couple of individual accolades; all in all, not a single person leaves the tournament unhappy with their performance. 

Sunlight has long dimmed out past the horizon by the time the bus trundles to a stop. Shiro bids the rest goodbye and heads off in the direction of his dorm, glancing back once to see his coach walking in the direction of the gym, carrying their trophy in his arms like a newborn baby. 

Shiro's physically exhausted from the many days of ice hockey, but faced with the knowledge that he's minutes away from having Keith all pressed up against him, he feels ready to run a marathon. It shows, when too impatient for the slow elevators to reach the ground floor, he ducks into the stairwell and takes the steps two at a time. 

Keith's sprawled out on his stomach, sheets of paper scattered across their bed (they’d done some rearranging a month or so ago, moving their beds together for more space), hair a messy knot of black on the crown of his head. He looks breathtaking. 

At the sound of the door opening and closing, Keith scrambles out of bed and leaps right into Shiro's arms – while Shiro manages to let his bag drop just in time to catch Keith under the buttocks, neither of them account for the fact that they're indoors and Shiro is tall. Keith hits his head, and his momentum sends Shiro careening backwards and colliding against the closed door. 

Stunned into momentary silence from the sudden shock of pain, Keith breaks it by bursting out into giggles, Shiro following suit. Keith’s laughter is – and will remain – undoubtedly one of the loveliest things Shiro’s ears have had the privilege of hearing. It sends his pulse aflutter and a lovesick (according to Matt, although Shiro will vehemently deny this) smile to appear on his face. 

Once the laughter fades, Shiro sets him down and places a gentle kiss on the sore spot on Keith's head. “Missed you.”

Keith makes a little noise, one that Shiro has come to learn means kiss me – on the mouth. So he does, fingers angling Keith's chin upwards before he leans in. Keith opens for him willingly, fingers curling around handfuls of Shiro's shirt as Shiro licks in, a pleased hum starting deep in his chest and turning into music for Shiro's ears. 

“Mm, I missed you too.”

“Nice shirt,” Shiro grins, a hand slipping up underneath said shirt, fingers spreading out across the small of Keith's back. “Looks like one I own.”

A casual shrug. “Really? What a coincidence.”

Shiro wants to rid Keith of his own shirt and perhaps other articles of clothing as well, but he's just returned from a five-hour bus ride and is in desperate need of a hot shower. 

“Give me ten minutes to shower and then we can continue this discussion.” 

“Sure; go on, I'll handle your stuff. Everything inside to be washed?”

  
Skin warm and squeaky clean, Shiro shuts off the water and grabs his towel. The shower did wonders; his muscles feel pliant and his body is a lot less achy than they felt right after he got off the bus. He makes quick work of his night routine, scrubbing all the excess water out of his hair before slipping into a pair of boxer shorts. 

Ever since that night, Shiro has slowly gotten used to walking around in the privacy of their room without his shirt on. He generates a lot of body heat, so sleeping without a shirt is always preferable. It's an added bonus that Keith has started doing the same, so cuddling in bed is now that much more…exciting. 

Keith's body has it own constellation of scars – Shiro learns that most were from fights. Younger Keith was a hothead, and he would pick fights with people older and bigger than himself just to see if he could beat them. 

There's one down his sternum that Shiro likes to trace when he's half asleep, the line of it now so familiar he can draw it out from memory. 

He exits the bathroom to see Keith already in bed, that very scar on display as his head rests on a forearm. 

“You look comfortable,” Shiro quips, moving to the door to make sure it's locked. 

The night is still young, but all Shiro wants to do is join Keith in bed and hold him close until it’s a reasonable time to fall asleep. It appears Keith has other ideas, however, because as soon as he pulls back the covers, Keith flips around onto his stomach, and Shiro's brain short-circuits. 

“You – wh – uhm,” he tries.

“Do you like it?” Nervousness flares up, palpable in Keith’s voice. “I’ve seen you in yours, and I think you look hot as hell in them, so I figured…” 

Shiro’s throat is as dry as a desert and he has to swallow a few times just to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Keith, I’m looking at you in a simple pair of jockstraps and I am already thinking of a million dirty things I want to do to you.”

That has Keith blushing to the tips of his ears – terribly endearing, considering the fact he had probably gone out just to buy jockstraps with the very intention of seducing Shiro when he came home. 

Making a short detour, Shiro dims the lights (judging from past experiences, the likelihood of them falling asleep after sex is extremely high, and Shiro would rather not climb out of bed, half-asleep and legs wobbly from an orgasm, just to turn the lights off) before he finally slides under the covers, head coming to rest on a fluffed-up pillow. 

He reaches for Keith and Keith goes eagerly, body settling against Shiro’s like two puzzle pieces fitting together. 

“Just so you know,” Shiro says, a hand slipping underneath the supple curve of a buttock as Keith’s legs come to straddle his hips, “ you could be wearing a potato sack and I would still be able to think of a million dirty things to do to you.” 

Keith ducks his head and groans in mock embarrassment, that sweet mouth breathing warm over the sensitive skin of Shiro’s neck. 

“You,” Shiro tells him, point-blank, “are everything.”

  
That night, Shiro doesn’t fuck Keith into the mattress, which was probably the exact opposite what Keith had planned and expected. 

Instead, he covers Keith with his frame, lips painting his skin with kisses that bloom into bruises. Underneath him, Keith arches like a cat in heat, blunt nails scraping down Shiro’s back and leaving rows of red that stand out more than his scars do. 

A drag of Shiro’s tongue across a nipple has Keith moaning a little too loudly, fingers of one hand burying themselves in the damp strands of Shiro’s hair while the other hand fists the sheets. Their neighbours might complain, but any sound that falls out of Keith’s mouth is music to Shiro’s ears, and he intends to have Keith performing an entire symphony. 

Ever a goal-oriented person, Shiro sets about achieving it. He plays with rosebud nipples until they’re puffy and red, takes Keith down his throat inch by agonizing inch, and spends far too much time between perky asscheeks until he hears a broken, _Shiro, please._ One last lick and Shiro relents, sliding two slick fingers inside Keith’s heat, curling them just the way he knows Keith likes. 

Shiro doesn’t fuck Keith that night. But he does make love to Keith, as clichéd as it sounds, whispering sweet nothings, declarations of adoration, and promises into the hollow of Keith’s clavicle, tongue chasing a stray drop of sweat that beads at his temple and rolls down his neck. 

He puts every thought and emotion he can’t find the words for into the movement of his hips, cupping Keith’s jaw and swallowing all the lovely sounds that he punches out his boyfriend with each thrust. Keeps at it until Keith has tears welling up in his eyes and his lips are bitten red, crying out _I can’t, I can’t,_ as he pulls Shiro impossibly closer.

It’s with a gasp and a shudder that Keith comes, spilling into the sliver of space between their bodies, and Shiro grinds deep into the clutch of Keith’s hole before he comes, too. Through the haze of orgasm and the rush of blood through his ears, Shiro feels the rapid rise and fall of Keith’s chest, shaky fingers fluttering along the edges of his scapulas. 

Minutes pass and they lie there, heedless of the mess on their stomachs.

“Romelle told you about the competition, didn’t she?”

Shiro cracks an eye open and catches sight of a small freckle by Keith’s shoulder. “She did.”

“You want me to participate.”

He says it like a fact, which it isn’t. 

“I want you to do whatever you want to do,” says Shiro, closing his eyes again. “I’d support you regardless.” When his words are met with nothing but silence, Shiro squeezes Keith’s hip and continues, “What’s stopping you from taking part? If I may ask.”

Voice small, Keith replies, “I want my mother there.”

Weight propped up on his elbows, Shiro thumbs at the gentle swell of Keith’s bottom lip. “I think she’d love to be there.”

Keith gives him a tiny smile – it grows just a little bit wider when he gets a kiss to the forehead. The nightlife has just started to buzz outside, but the two of them have already had enough fun for the night. Shiro slips out, much to Keith’s vocal displeasure, and reaches over to the nightstand for their trusty pack of wet wipes in order to clean up. 

One hefty heave and Keith is hoisted up against Shiro’s side, the covers pulled up around them and the light just bright enough for them to make out the features of each other’s faces. 

Another kiss, then Shiro burrows down for the night. Keith looks at him, fond and mildly amused. 

“Sleep now, love. We’ll give this more thought another day.”

  
Because life has a way of working out, Keith’s mother calls the very next weekend and wakes them up. 

“She’s in town,” Keith mumbles, sleep still lacing his voice and hair a frightful mess. He’s got a line of dried drool down his chin and Shiro knows he’s madly in love when the sight of that is what sends his heart pounding at the speed of light. “She wants to take me out to eat.”

His last word is punctured by a yawn, arms raised up above his head and toes curling as he stretches in an attempt to chase the drowsiness away. The sheets slip down with Keith’s movements, sending fine rays of sunlight dappling Keith’s skin with gold, and Shiro can’t help but curl an arm around that small waist. 

Keith hums, a thigh finding its way between Shiro’s. “Join us? Mom has been asking to meet you.”

It’s a reasonable request, one that the logical part of Shiro’s brain has been expecting. They’ve been together for half a year, after all, and it’s not unusual for a couple to discuss meeting each other’s parents at this point in their relationship. But inexplicable fear grips Shiro – what if Keith’s mother deems him unworthy of her son, as someone who is too much of a burden for her precious child to bear?

Oblivious, Keith continues on, his big toe drawing aimless patterns down the side of Shiro’s calf. “I’ve told her so many things about you and I think she likes you better than I do, sometimes.” He chuckles, and the sound is what stops Shiro's thoughts from spiralling out of control. 

“So what do you say? Brunch? We could go to our regular place and treat her to some of those eggs.” Warm and solid, Keith squirms a little closer to Shiro. He smells like home.

Shiro stares up at the ceiling, counts five beats of his heart, and agrees. 

Hours later, Shiro accepts the fact that his worries are just as unfounded as fairy tales. Krolia is a wonderful woman – strong, clearly independant, and with a wit that rivals her son’s. It takes Shiro completely by surprise when she thanks him for making Keith happy, the words almost as powerful as the look in her eyes as she utters them. 

But the cherry atop the sundae is getting to witness Keith tell his mother about his love for figure skating and the excitement that floods Krolia’s face when she learns of it. 

“He’s amazing on the ice,” Shiro says, grinning when Keith starts to squirm with embarrassment. “I have some videos if you’d like to watch?”

By the end of their meal, Krolia has gone through all of the videos on Shiro’s phone – and there’s quite a lot of them – and Keith receives her full support for his passion. Both mother and son tear up at some point; Keith from relief and Krolia from regret that she was not there to support him from the start. 

“I can’t change the past, Keith, but I promise I’ll be there for any and all competitions in the future. I’ll bring banners and pompoms and –”

“Mom,” Keith chokes out, swiping at an errant tear, “ _please_ don’t bring pompoms.”

She laughs, “Are you sure? I could match the colour to your outfit.” Then she sobers up and says in a soft voice that tugs at Shiro’s heartstrings, “Oh honey. Don’t let me hold you back from your dreams. What kind of mother would I be if I don’t support you in everything you want to do?”

At that point, Shiro excuses himself under the guise of needing the bathroom. He knows Keith sees right through him, but he also knows that Keith needs this. 

After, once he’s paid for their food (Krolia puts up a fair fight, but Shiro can be firm when he needs to be) and they’re standing by Krolia’s car, Shiro gets a hug from her. She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t need to, because Shiro understands. 

There, on the curb, they watch as Krolia drives off. Once she disappears around a corner, Keith tugs on Shiro’s hand and starts walking in the opposite direction. With some time to spare before nightfall, they take a stroll down one of the city’s quieter streets, Keith’s hand fitting perfectly in Shiro’s larger grip, slim fingers tapping out an absent beat against the ridges of Shiro’s knuckles. 

“I think that went well.”

“I think it did,” Shiro finds himself agreeing. “Your mother is lovely; I see where you get it from.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees Keith smile, the scar on his cheek gleaming slightly in the dusk light. 

The words come out without a second thought.

“Hey, you know I love you, right?”

Keith doesn’t bat an eye. “Of course you do. The polite thing to do is to love the person who loves you.”

A puppy bounds right towards them, its poor owner sprinting after it with the leash in her hand, and Shiro takes the opportunity to pull Keith aside. The puppy bullets past and Shiro kisses Keith, nice and slow. 

“Thank you. For, you know, saving me.”

“Cheesy as hell,” Keith informs him. “But you know what – cheesy is good, I like cheese.” He tiptoes for another kiss. “We saved each other, Shiro. I love you.”

“There’s just one thing I still can’t quite understand though.”

“What?”

“How is your taste in coffee _so_ atrocious?”

It isn’t long before they see the puppy again, but this time, they’re the ones running past, Shiro laughing as Keith chases him, hot on his heels. 

**Author's Note:**

> Note to my future self: please never juggle two Big Bang fics at the same time EVER AGAIN.
> 
> (Sorry if it's super clichéd, but I really wanted to write ice hockey/figure skating at some point in my fic writing career heh)
> 
> [Click for Links!](https://bluedveins.wixsite.com/evoxine)


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